What's in a Name?

Just Ask a Karen...

I was almost Gwendolyn. That’s what my dad wanted to name me, but thank God my mom didn’t let him. No disrespect to any Gwendolyns out there, but I just can’t see me as one.

Gwendolyn is haughty, imperious, a little too serious. Maybe she’s a librarian or a funeral director. She’s definitely smart but perhaps not as smart as she thinks. She wears pencil skirts and heels that clickety-clack down hard-surface hallways. Her hair is always up, her clothes are devoid of color and she knows how to raise a single eyebrow while looking down her nose at you.

Her home is tidy and functional and beige like her clothes. She has the exact same breakfast every day (a hard boiled egg, toast and black coffee) and lays out the next day’s outfit before she goes to bed at night.

I can respect Gwendolyn. Maybe even be friends-ish with her. But I couldn’t be one. I mean, I don’t even eat eggs.

Another near miss name for me was Stephanie. My parents put that one on the maybe list because it was the female version of my dad’s name, Steven.

Stephanies are kind of innocuous, a bit neutral, not too this or too that. Sensible but not boring. Not vanilla but not rainbow sherbet either. I could have been a Stephanie, but thank goodness I wasn’t. After my parents divorced, I ended up with a stepsister named Stephanie.

What a mess that would have been. Not to mention, in our blended family we now have a grandmother and granddaughter both named Sherry and a dad and son-in-law named Steven. Two Stephanies would have been too much.

Growing up, I wanted to be a Kelly. Many late 70s, early 80s girls did thanks to Jaclyn Smith in Charlie’s Angels. She was the ultimate Kelly.

Kellys were the Miss America kind of beautiful. Natural, smart, poised and likable. The type of girl you wanted to be but didn’t begrudge being prettier than you. Kelly was cool but not aloof.

She might have been a cheerleader but also student body president. She wore the it outfits of the day but never anything outrageous or wacky, and she never made the same bangs mistakes the rest of us did. Kelly had good teeth and good handwriting. Teachers liked her almost as much as the boys did.

In the teenage social circle, Kelly was the axis. The worst thing you could pinpoint about her was that she bit her nails and sometimes copied your homework, but that just made her more human.

Oh how I wanted to be a Kelly.

I never hated my name, but I never loved it either. There was usually at least one other Leslie in my class growing up. We weren’t the Jennys or Lisas of the day (soooo many Jennys and Lisas), but we weren’t the Taylors either (non-existent back then).

I definitely had—and still have—a strong preference for how my name is pronounced. I am not a Lez-lee. I am definitely a Less-lee. It’s strictly a sound thing and has nothing to do with connotation or a Lez-lee who made a bad impression. I simply like the s sound better than the z. The s sounds softer, more feminine, lighter. The z sounds more imposing, heavier, chainsaw-ish.

While I don’t have a strong love of my name, I am quite fond of my first initial. L sounds are some of my favorites, and capital cursive ls are one of the best letters to write. (Js are great too. I love making loops.)

Leslie isn’t a bad name as far as derivatives go. It doesn’t rhyme with anything offensive that would lend itself to an ugly nickname.

My mom sometimes called me Liesel, like in Sound of Music. And my dear now departed friend Doug dubbed me Lel which some of my friends still use today. I’ve already chosen Lele as my grandmother name, although I’m about as close to having grandkids as I am to learning French. I deeply desire both, but neither are in my immediate future.

I used to fantasize about marrying a guy named Wesley so we could be that cutesy rhyming couple, but I married a Chris. Never even dated a Wesley. Chris calls me by my middle name, Dianne. He’s the only one that does that, and I kind of like that it’s just his, although sometimes I wonder if he might have forgotten my actual first name since I never ever hear him say it.

He did come up with a bonus nickname for me once, though. We watch every episode of The First 48, a documentary style show that follows actual murder investigations. The perpetrators are often known only by their street names, like Lil Wooty, Bam Bam or Iceman, so some of the detective work involves figuring out their actual legal identities.

One night Chris and I decided to figure out what our street names would be. I christened him C-Money. He called me Finger Toes. We howled so hard at that one, the neighbors might have thought we were being murdered. (If you could see how long and skinny my toes are, you’d see how apropos this nickname is. If the shoe fits, even with toes hanging over the edge…And no, I will not be posting photo proof.)

I very much regret sharing this street nickname with my upper level dance students at one point. As Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman would say, “Big mistake. Huge.” They didn’t exactly bully me about this name, but let’s just say they really enjoyed it. And took secret pictures of my feet.

So what’s in a name? How much does a name define us and how much do we define our names? If names didn’t matter, we could have each been assigned a number at birth. Maybe in the future a QR code?

Our names can add poetry or meaning or connection to our lives. Or they can misrepresent us. Just ask a Karen, Katrina or Becky.

They can be a blessing or a curse. (How many current day kids do you know named Adolph?)

For better or worse, they can help us fit in or stand out. Moon Unit? Apple? North?

Sure, names are labels we use to identify each other. But they also help us identify ourselves. We get to decide if our names fit. And we have the ability, although complicated, to change them if they don’t.

If we choose to be parents, we have the privilege and responsibility of naming another human. This task should not be taken lightly. Choose wrong and you might set your kid up for a lifetime of merciless teasing regardless of the length of their toes. Choose wisely and you may be enhancing their image or opportunities.

According to Shakespeare’s Juliet, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Would it though? I just can’t imagine a flower called smegma or moist or Leonard having the same appeal.

I’m not mad at my parents about my assigned name. I’m ok with Leslie. I can’t help wondering though, what heights I might have soared to if I’d only been a Kelly.

*To all the Gwendolyns and Stephanies out there, this is all in good fun. Please do not take offense and please do not @ me. To the Kellys: You’re welcome